at the closed door. He opened the paper and began reading, the further down the page he got, the wider his eyes became. Johnson let out a low whistle and mumbled, “Un-fuckin’ believable.”
“What are you doing?”
Lyle Johnson spun around. Father John Callahan stood at the door with his arms folded over his chest.
“Nothing,” Johnson said, lowering his hand with the paper.
“What do you have there?”
“Nothing.”
Father Callahan stepped closer. He could read his name on the yellow legal paper. He said, “As an officer with the state, I would think that security, confidentiality, would mean something to you. That’s marked for me- confidential.”
“With all due respect preacher, no such thing as personal property for an inmate.”
“You’re not holding personal property, you’re holding a private letter, a confession, addressed to me. I asked that man to write it. As a spiritual confession, it’s a sacred trust between God and one of his children.”
Johnson said nothing. He made no effort to move.
“Give it to me. That man, regardless of his past, is trying to make amends with our Lord. This could be his last statement-his last wish on earth. I won’t let you deny him, because right now God’s law supersedes your regulations.”
Johnson’s eyelids lowered, a red patch forming on his bull neck. He slowly lifted the piece of paper. “Take it. I didn’t read it anyway.”
Father Callahan took the paper and placed it between the pages of the Bible he carried. He glanced down at Spelling, who was in a deep drug-induced sleep, breathing slow, mechanical pulses thumping. Monitors filled the room with a bluish tint. He looked at Johnson’s nametag. “I’m praying for this man. He’s more than a prison number. His name’s Sam Spelling. And, Mr. Johnson, I will pray for you, too.”
Johnson snorted, turned around and left the room. Father Callahan watched Spelling sleep a moment. He placed his hand on Spelling’s forehead and whispered, “Our heavenly Father, you kept this man well under surgery. You have a larger purpose for him, I pray, and I pray that he will live the rest of his life in service to you. Amen.”
ELEVEN
Lyle Johnson sat in a remote corner of the hospital snack bar and rewrote what he remembered reading in Sam Spelling’s letter. There was only one other person sitting at a table, a woman finishing a piece of pie. She got up and walked to a coffee dispenser less than twenty feet away. Johnson saw that she had left her book and cell phone on the table. He strolled by the table, lifted her phone, and exited the hospital.
Outside, Johnson stepped into a memorial garden with blooming roses and a three-tiered water fountain that splashed into a concrete base dotted with coins. There were no patients or members of anyone’s family outside. He was alone. He sat on one of the benches and thought about what he would say. Not often does an opportunity like this fall into a workingman’s hands. No way to live the rest of life-retiring on a state pension and have to work security for Walmart until you die.
He would do it. He could do it. After all, a stupid con like Spelling had done it, and he’d kept the secret for years. Johnson lifted the stolen cell phone out of his pocket. He knew where the person worked. Spelling had spelled it all out. All he had to do was call-one call to change his life. Easy. Fuckin’ A. Then why was his hand shaking so much he thought he would drop the phone?
Get a grip!
Johnson was surprised. The voice on the phone was calm. Too calm. After he introduced himself, Johnson said, “You seem like a very reasonable man.”
“You have the wrong person, Mr. Johnson.”
Johnson nodded. “I knew you’d say that on the phone. So I’ll do most of the talking. I’m not greedy. I just figure, according to Sam Spelling’s note, if you gave him a hundred grand to keep quiet eleven years ago, your secret ought to be worth even a little more today. You know-inflation-cost of doin’ business.”
“I’ll play along with a prank call for a moment, how’d you get my number?”
“Spelling had your number, pal. In a lot of ways he had your number. Now I got it, but I can be forgetful, very forgetful, just ask my wife. Here’s the deal: you get the written statement I stole from Spelling’s room. I get two hundred grand to go away forever. The state executes Charlie Williams in a few days. A few weeks later, nobody remembers his name.”
“Who else have you shared this prank-this alleged letter?”
Johnson was silent a moment. “Nobody, except maybe that priest, Callahan. And I didn’t share shit with him. He’s the priest that heard Spelling make a deathbed confession. Exactly what he said, I don’t know. But this is a hardcore priest, one of ‘em guys who keep spilled crap between them and God. Nobody else. Don’t sweat it. I have the shit on paper, the statement in Spelling’s own handwriting.”
The voice on the phone was silent.
Johnson said, “Meet me tonight. Midnight. Bring the money. ”
“Where? I ask this only because I may send the police there.”
“Sure you will. Listen, asshole. Be there! It’s an old pioneer village at the corner of State Road 46 and 76 near Pierson. It’s under rehab. There’s a replica of an old general store. Meet me on the store’s porch. In that letter, Spelling says where he found the murder weapon-your murder weapon. And he tells where it’s been hidden all these years for safekeeping. I know where to find it. Don’t be late.”
Lyle Johnson disconnected, a smile working at the corner of his mouth. He fished out a quarter from his pocket, tossing the coin in the fountain. “My wish is comin’ true.”
TWELVE
Father Callahan walked quickly down the long hospital corridor.
Turning the corner, he almost ran into the ER doctor he’d met earlier. The doctor was walking with another man, older, white hair, tired but compassionate eyes. Father Callahan said, “Congratulations on the successful surgery of Sam Spelling.”
The ER doctor nodded. “It was Dr. Strassberg here who performed the operation.”
Dr. Strassberg looked at the priest. A tiny speck of dried blood was in lower part of the doctor’s glasses. He said, “I always ask for a little help upstairs, Father.”
“Indeed. What is Mr. Spelling’s prognosis?”
“Bullet was a clean shot. Hit no major arteries. But the heart was long suffering from atherosclerosis. We did a triple by-pass. He’ll live. How long, though…Father you’re closer to that answer than me. But he’ll be okay. He’ll walk out of here”
“I’ll pray for his recovery.”
The doctors left, and Father Callahan started to dial his cell phone. He saw the tiny battery icon. It was down to the last bar. Two men approached. One was a uniformed officer. The other was African-American, tall, sports coat and tie. His jacket had a slight budge on the left. Callahan recognized him from the ER lobby area. “Excuse me, Father,” said the plainclothes man.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Grant, investigating the attempted murder of Sam Spelling.”
“It looks like the offender wasn’t successful. The doctor just told me Sam Spelling is going to pull through. He’s turned the corner with his life. And our Lord had a bit to do with it. ”
“Then we don’t have a homicide, only a shooting. A nurse said you were in his room earlier.”
“I was in the emergency room earlier, too. Not long after he’d been shot.”
